I'm Still Breathing
by micahskitty
Summary: postLondonCalling. Jude's alone. Tommy's engaged. "Pick your favorite shade of black, best prepare a speech." Jude's giving up on it all.


PostLondonCalling.

One-Shot. )

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Based loosely on Katy Perry's "I'm Still Breathing", snips occasionally appearing in the story.

They say that the grass is always greener on the other side. In London, everything is green. Especially the grass. Where I live, there's rain, plenty enough to keep the greenery. The loft I rented was on the fifth story of a converted building, and several other celebrities were rumored to have lived here. I wonder if Kurt Cobain would ever find himself here. Maybe he had… and look where he ended up.

I scowled, staring out the window at the rain that made everything appear too bleak. It had me longing for Toronto. For my friends. For my family. I had kept in contact with Sadie through letters that eventually reduced themselves to postcards and the occasional post-it included. Turns out her and Kwest weren't the Heaven-bound match everyone would have believed. Her interests were in Darius, of all places.

According to Sade, Speed and Karma were still working things out. His dad took pity, and along with the other mates of SME, they found a nice little house to settle into. Kyle and Wally are enrolled in college while Speed and Karma are battling a lawsuit. It's led to his study of law, and soon he'll be going for his bar exam. Who knew Speed had it in him?

No word was sent about Tommy. Sadie hadn't seen him, excluding the occasional glimpse of the producer hard at work. I needed no update, though. He was sure that I got his agenda. Today's paper declared his latest antics; TOMMY Q GETS ENGAGED! The subtitle reads: For real, this time. I flinched. Recalling our 'engagement'. I couldn't escape him, not even here, in London.

Out of spite, I smacked the paper away. A model. That was his type. Why was I surprised? I had hoped that our relationship taught him, if nothing else, that basing love on the superficial would get you nowhere. Apparently, it had not. Had it taught him anything? Had it meant anything to him?

This was a road I dared not travelled these days, and when I did, it only led to a depressing chain of thoughts. I was twenty-one, locked away in my own flat, and entirely successful. In London, I had several hit singles, some of them even reaching the charts in the States and Canada. The cameras followed me when I left my home… but it was rare I did so these days.

I couldn't.

Not without seeing his face. Seeing what he's done now, who he loves today, who he dumped yesterday. I only hoped he had caught my message. I could only hope he would be prepared.

--"I leave the gas on  
Walk the alleys in the dark  
Sleep with candles burning  
I leave the door unlocked  
I'm weaving a rope--"

--

He'd scowl. The arm that was tossed over his torso was tossed aside, the glint of an engagement ring catching in the brief rays of the sun that had penetrated the curtains. Tousled hair was given a brief run of fingers, and he'd move away from the bed and towards the hall, to the stairs, and down to the kitchens.

He hadn't done badly for himself, all things considered. He owned a mansion-of-sorts, and frequently entertained passing celebrities, often courting their daughters, to put it lightly. The one upstairs was just another way to pass the time – a beautiful past time, at that.

Those that kept his grounds tidy had left the newspaper on the vast table, and it immediately caught his attention. Short, blonde curls and a coy smile decorated the front page. –His Girl--, His Jude. Those big, bright eyes of hers seemed to study him. Not even the ink of printed paper could dilute her beauty. The caption below could, however.

"Jude Harrison has been given a ticket for running red lights."

--"And running all the red lights  
did I get your attention?  
Because I'm sending all the signs  
that the clock is ticking  
and I'll be giving my two weeks  
pick your favorite shade of black  
you best prepare a speech  
say something funny  
say something sweet"--

Amusement vanished from his eyes. This was just a string of mishaps he had read about Jude in the papers lately. Her house had burnt down. Someone had broken into her apartment, if one could call it that. She had practically invited him in, leaving those doors unlocked. It left him unsettled, a string of worry beginning to grow, gnawing at the back of his mind. It didn't help that her latest single was entitled 'I'm still Breathing', and the suicidal undertones plagued him nearly as much as the guilt.

Damn it! The hand that was on the paper curled into a fist, pounding against the table. What did he have to feel guilty for? He had proposed! He had promised forever, was ready to give it all away for her, and SHE had left HIM, stranding him in Toronto with the slew of fragments and lonely nights.

Tommy groaned. This pained him. Creeping back up the stairs, he'd head to his bedroom and immediately begin to pack a few items of attire, the essentials for remaining clean, and a few extras. Upon finding a pen and a pad of paper, he'd scrawl a note and leave it on the bed for his sleeping fiancée.

"We're over. Keep the ring. –Q"

That is to say, the note was left for his ex-fiancée.

Hours passed and the plans were set in motion. His plane touched down in London, and Tommy Quincy prepared himself for the battle that was in front of him. With his trademark smirk, he'd head for Jude's place.

--"But Don't Say That You Loved Me"--

I found that I couldn't stop my hands from moving. Pen in hand, they wrote the words that I couldn't say. That I had the chance to say, but didn't. That I was too afraid to say, that I needed to say. I began to 

put music to it, my head alive with the sounds of notes and instruments. By immersing myself in work, I could distract myself. I could pretend that what Tommy and I had wasn't love, and that I could find the same thing in any other guy.

So why hadn't I?

Frustrated, I twirled my star-ring around my finger, and stood, humming the songs chords. When I turned around, there was a ghost. My knees nearly gave out.

"Tommy?" His name was a whisper, nearly silent in the silence of the flat.

"Hey, Jude." His voice was just as I remembered. It was everything I loved. It was everything I hated. "Hope you don't mind me barging in like this, I…" Whatever he was going to say was dropped, his gaze dropping.

Immediately, I went on the defense. "I don't want to meet her." My lips pursed. Had he such gall to bring his fiancée before me, as if I mattered so little?

Apparently, he did have such audacity, because he laughed, weakening my resolve with that sound. "There is no 'her', Jude. Just a girl who let herself get too confused by the lifestyle."

I went towards the kitchen, not surprised that he followed behind. "Girls seem to do that a lot with you, Quincy."

I would know. I was amongst that number. His form opened old wounds. I cringed.

"Jude, I didn't come here to fight."

My eyebrow raised, hip cocking to the side. "Then what did you come here for, Tommy? Come to rub my face in what I can't have? Come to make me remember what we had, and then complicate matters? 

Oh, let me guess, you want me involved in some scandal?" My hands flew upwards, frustration creasing my forehead. "Whatever it is, Tommy, I don't want it."

"You don't have to want it, Jude. You need it. Just like I," He stepped closer, pinning me to the counter. "Just like I need you."

Breath was hard to come by. Each inhale more ragged than the last.

--"I'm Still Breathing  
though we've been dead for awhile  
This sickness has no cure.  
We're going down for sure."--

"Jude," He breathed against my lips. "Marry me. For real, this time."

What could I say? What complaints or arguments could I formulate? Just as I opened my mouth to protest them, he'd silent everything with an argument of his own. A passionate reminder, his lips upon my own. His hand grabbed mine, and that's when I felt it… the press of the aluminum foil "ring" he had crafted for me so long ago. It was heavier.

My nails unwrapped it. In it, a ring. "My mother's," He'd whisper against me, forehead pressed to mine as his voice was filled with untold emotions. "You remember her. She, while she could remember you, wanted you to have it."

It fit my finger perfectly. He fit me perfectly. What could I say?

"Yes, Tommy Quincy." I think the earth stopped then. It was harder to breathe.

"In and out, Jude. Breathe."

I smiled, finding his lips and claiming them before murmuring, "I'm still breathing."


End file.
